Chapter Seven Fireworks
“What time are you going to get here?”
I stop slathering on sunscreen and frown at the phone. “Where, Mom?”
“To Tita Anna’s house for the cookout. Are you on the way? We’re leaving in a few minutes.”
“Oh. Oh, Mom! I have a date.” Yep. I’m taking the plunge.
Telling the world’s most judgemental adult that I’m not coming to a family gathering (that no one mentioned to me, by the way, that everyone just assumed I’d attend even though I now live hours away), and opening the door to date-related grilling.
“A date? On the 4th of July? What kind of date? Who is this man? What does he do for a living?” My mother shouts for my father, which means she’s going to need fatherly threatening to add to the arsenal.
“His name is Gordon. He’s the firefighter who got my cat out of a tree.
Twice, actually. I made him thank-you cookies, we talked, he asked me to go bowling, we bowled, I made him dinner, and he asked me to go to the fireworks in town.
It’s more like a community cookout and a little carnival on the high school athletic fields,” I explain, smiling. It all sounds perfectly innocent.
My thoughts surrounding Gordon haven’t been innocent lately, which is a problem, since I know he’s hesitant about physical things. “He’s a gentleman, Mom. You’d like him. He’s quiet and heroic, and he loves the piano.”
“He’s going to be a predator. A kinky sex maniac.”
I breathe a silent prayer to stay un-stressed and cheerful, then say, “Hi, to you, too, Daddy.”
“You listen. He’s a perfect gentleman, you say? Quiet? The quiet ones are the ones on the True Crime Channel episodes. How do you know this guy isn’t some monster?”
“Well, everyone in town knows him and likes him. He’s not perfect, but he’s sweet, kind, and honest about stuff. He doesn’t play games.” As far as I can tell. We’ve known each other for a week. Whoop-dee-doo.
I’m going to leave that part out.
“Bring him to Tita Anna’s.”
“I can’t. He’s in charge of the display. Not running it, but making sure everyone is safe and that nothing catches on fire.”
“Hmph.” Mom gives a grudging noise, which could mean anything from the potato salad needing salt to her being secretly a little impressed.
“He’s probably a secret arsonist. A lot of firefighters are.”
“Daddy. That’s not remotely true. Some might be, but a lot? There are thousands, probably hundreds of thousands of firefighters in America, maybe a million. If ‘a lot’ were firebugs, we wouldn’t have anything left but ashes.”
“Hmff.”
“You two are starting to sound a lot alike. That’s that whole being married for almost thirty years, right?” I tease.
“Your cousins are going to be there. Don’t you want to see them?”
I sigh. Yes. My cousins and besties are back, and all of them had a blast, got a bunch of numbers, a bunch of hangovers, and way too many souvenirs.
I definitely feel like I missed out—but now I also feel a little bit like I got something they didn’t.
Like they went to the tropical island, but I dug up the treasure.
“I’ll make time to visit soon, Mom, I promise.
When I talked to Shane last night, she was still dealing with jet lag, even though she never crossed a time zone. ”
“She was dealing with a half a bottle of tequila!” My mother snaps. “Wild girls. If you had been there, you would have made sure they behaved.”
I bite my lip and make a noise of agreement while I cross my fingers behind my back. No. I would have been as wild as the rest of them.
Maybe I would have slept with Mr. Harvard Law. Maybe he wouldn’t return my calls. He’d be in Boston, probably, which is a long way from Jersey City.
My phone buzzes against my ear, and I look at it while Mom launches into a comparative history of my sins versus the rest of my relatives.
Gordon: I saw this article about a cat who learned to play eight different songs on the piano. I thought you’d like it. Here’s the link.
Andrea: I have to show this to Chopin. He’s been slacking, obviously.
Gordon: Maybe you should give him lessons instead of me. He might be more capable.
Andrea: Nope. I want you on this piano bench. Drop and give me a C scale.
Gordon: Yes, ma’am. What do you charge? If I did want lessons?
Andrea: One lesson per cat rescue, and then I’ll charge in date-night dessert or take-out.
Gordon: That’s not fair. You need to earn money. Teachers are chronically underpaid. I read about it.
I smile. I can hear his serious voice.
“Andrea? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. Gordon texted me. He sent me an article about cats and pianos. He’s... He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. More serious. More mature.”
“How old is he?” Daddy interjects, the warning clear in his voice.
“Thirty-two.”
“Ah-ha! He’s a predator! He’s lusting after girls in their twenties.”
“He’s not lusting after anyone but me—and also, not even me. He hasn’t even kissed me.” I’m not going to tell them about the sweetest kiss ever, the little gentle kiss on the top of my head. “We’ve held hands. Wooo, so scary.”
“Don’t mock your father; he has high cholesterol. You stress him, he’ll have a stroke and need to be put in one of those wheelchairs, and we’ll have to get a stairlift.”
“Mother, that’s like an Olympic level of jumping from A to B. Daddy doesn’t have to be stressed. At all. Gordon is a great guy, and he’s very, very safe. He’s boring. Okay? Mature, great, and boring.”
“He can’t be that boring, or you wouldn’t like him,” Dad says accusingly.
That’s true. “He’s entertaining in a way that you would approve of,” I amend, texting back the guy in question.
Andrea: I am not underpaid. I’m under-entertained. Without you around, my summer would be dangerously boring. I could perish from boredom. My blood would be on your hands.
Gordon: ...
Gordon: ...
Gordon: I would never let you get hurt. I will continue to entertain you. We could go fishing. Or hiking.
Andrea: I’ve never done either. But I would, if there was a certain hunky wilderness guide along to make sure I didn’t get lost and eaten by bears, or catch a brain-eating virus in the river water.
Gordon: That’s two lessons paid for, then.
“What makes this guy so special? Why would you miss Tita Anna’s Red, White, and Blue mini bundt cakes? She made one for you, you know.”
That hurts. I can’t believe I forgot about that. Tita Anna’s pandan-flavored bundt cakes with a strawberry filling are worth fighting a whole new revolution over. But... “Josiah can eat mine,” I say, throwing my brother under the bus.
“Your brother is on a Mercy Doctors trip to a ghetto somewhere, giving up his holiday weekend in the service of others, God protect him,” Mom says, following up with a rapid prayer that flips between Tagalog and English depending on how emphatic she is.
“You would know that if you two spoke more often.”
“Yes, Mom. Did you call and guilt-trip him?” No. Josiah is the favorite. He not only went the medical route, he specialized, and he’s working with the best wound care specialists in the tri-state area as an intern.
I’m proud of him. Crazy proud. We’re just not crazy close, not since he got swallowed whole by his career and his “mission,” which is noble and all, but...
It’s just another reason life has been feeling lonely.
“He is saving lives! You are dating a fireman!”
“Who also saves lives! Ha!” I counter. And before my parents can tag-team me again, I add, “If I don’t date, I can’t get married and have grandkids for you.” I pull the ultimate ammunition, which will bite me in the butt one day. Probably soon.
“That’s not even an issue,” Dad begins, and I can hear Mom chatter him to silence, a vehement burst of sound.
“We want to meet him. Soon.”
“Sounds good. I gotta go. Love you lots. I’ll text Josiah. I hope he’s safe. Bye!”
True to my word, I hang up and text my brother.
Andrea: I hear you’re saving lives. Proud of you, big bro.
Josiah: Image loading.
I almost vomit on the spot.
Josiah: Look. You can see how the gangrene has impacted the foot and is spreading up the calf. I might get to assist on an amputation tonight!
Andrea: Good for you. Can you please warn me before you send pictures like that?
Josiah: Wimp. The worst thing you have to look at is sheet music with coffee stains. Or boogery little kids.
Andrea: I love you, too. If you get back to Jersey City before I do, you can have my Red, White, and Blue bundt cake.
Josiah: Bet.
Josiah: Image loading.
Josiah: Look! This is a super rare kind of venous ablation that’s refusing to heal!
Andrea: I rescind my bundt cake. Meghan gets it.
Josiah: Brat.
Yep. I wanna go hang out with a bunch of strangers and one oversized firefighter. It might be a little easier than dealing with my family right now.
The day has been balmy, a pleasant eighty with breezes and some lowering clouds. If it rains, I won’t mind—well, unless it rains hard.
Actually, I might like it to rain hard. Then Andrea and I could skip this date and—
I stop in mid-thought. All around me, kids and families are milling across the field, eating snow cones, getting their faces painted, trying to win prizes with ring tosses and lucky duck floats, and all the rest of that noisy joyfulness that makes me feel an extra surge of protectiveness.
This is a beautiful, safe place. Full of people who love each other and monsters who will fight on the side of good to save that peace.
If Andrea and I weren’t here, enjoying this happy, festive evening, maybe we’d be hiking. Or fishing by a quiet spot in the Pine Ridge River, or out at Blue Moon Lake. Maybe she’d want me to come back to her place.
I close my eyes, and I can almost hear her playing.
I dream about sitting with her standing beside me.
Her hands on my arms. Then my shoulders.
Just the thought of innocent touches makes me feel shameful urges, and I don’t want her to think I’m like that.
Some big, drooling, snarling, rutting beast.
“It’s Miss Flores! Hi, Miss Flores!”
“Miss Flores!”